Itch
by DarkHeartInTheSky
Summary: When an angel leaves a vessel, a bit of their grace is left behind. Castiel has Lucifer's grace inside him. He has to get it out. Destiel only if you squint.


_AN: So, I wrote this little beauty way back over the summer for the SPN Horror Bang challenge over on LiveJournal, and I...forgot to post it here! Whoops. Better late than never, right? I want to give a big shout-out to my two authors for this fic, kuwlshadow and howboutnovak! You can find them on Tumblr. Unfortunately, this site doesn't let me embed artwork, and I can only make one piece of art the cover page, but I've included the links to both pieces in my profile. Please check them out-you're missing out on a vital part of the story if you don't see them!_

 _WARNING: This story does deal with self-harm. If that's triggering to you in any fashion, I suggest clicking the back arrow right now. Otherwise..._

 _Enjoy!_

 _-0-0-_

 _Matthew, Mark, Luke and John_

 _Bless the bed that I lay on_

 _Four corners to my bed_

 _Four angels round my head_

 _One to watch and one to pray_

 _And two to bear my soul away_

The first time he'd cut himself, it'd been a complete accident. It'd been another mistake on his part—another sloppy, rushed mistake—trying to kill a demon, and after stabbing the monster, his blade slipped through his hands and sliced straight down his palm.

It was an amateur's mistake.

Castiel stared at the wound, at the blood seeping out, mixed in with soft wisps of grace. It hurt. Burned right down to his core, but no sound escaped past his lips.

Dean was at his side an instant later, gripping Castiel by his shoulder.

"—Cas? Cas!"

Dean shook his shoulder roughly. Castiel blinked and turned to Dean.

"Hey, hey, hey," Dean said, clasping his other hand on Castiel's cheek. "You with me, buddy?"

"Where else would I be?" Castiel said. His eyes scanned the area, nerves buzzing, searching for a predator that was not there. But he had to search. Just in case.

His hand still burned, and the blood dripped past his fingertips onto the dark floor. It was warm and wet. Castiel rubbed his fingertips together.

Dean sighed. He grabbed Castiel's hand and forced his palm upwards.

"You okay?" Dean asked, rubbing circles on Castiel's wrist.

"Yes," Castiel said, staring at the blood. It was just a cut. He'd been hurt much worse before—but ever since Lucifer had been wrenched from this body, the Winchesters had been treating him cautiously, as though he were made completely of glass. Dean, especially.

"You planning on healing that?" Dean said, giving a pointed glance to the cut. Then Dean met his eyes, and Castiel was pained by Dean's gaze; the worry that permeated all over Dean's face, the pure concern. "You can heal it, right?"

Castiel pulled his hand away from Dean's grasp. "It's only a cut," Castiel snapped. "You don't have to baby me."

The look melted off Dean's face and was replaced by an icy, detached glare, one Castiel had come to know intimately.

"Fine," Dean snapped. "I won't _baby_ you. Get the fuck in the car. We're leaving."

He had made Dean upset.

The drive back to the bunker was tense and awkward. Dean had stalked to the Impala and slammed the driver's side door shut. Sam knew his brother well enough to not make any mention of Dean's mood and dutifully kept his mouth shut. Castiel slinked awkwardly into the backseat, had barely closed the door before Dean had the car in gear and was driving faster than the speed limit, blasting his music at volumes that made even Castiel's teeth ache.

He hadn't meant to upset Dean. He hated upsetting Dean.

…

It seemed like all he did lately was upset Dean.

Castiel didn't say anything the rest of the drive home; not even when Sam and Dean fell into an eventual, tense conversation about nothing of consequence. Castiel stared out the window and dug his fingernails into the wound on his hand.

 _"Look at you," Lucifer whispered, his breath hot and rotted against Castiel's ear. Lucifer's fingers twirled in Castiel's hair, and he tugged harshly. "You're so pathetic! What are you, Castiel?"_

 _"I am an angel of the Lord," Castiel whispered, staring at the fuzzy television screen his mind had conjured up. The image was obscured, the sounds coming in and out, pitch rising and falling._

 _Lucifer huffed and yanked hard on Castiel's hair. Castiel bit down on his lip to trap a whimper. "Reaaallly?" Lucifer drawled. Lucifer's other hand came up pressed against the back of Castiel's neck. "Is this what angels do in their free time now? Sit here, wasting away in the dark, into nothingness? With_ Full House _reruns?" Lucifer tsked. "Don't lie, Castiel. It's unbecoming of you. What. Are. You?"_

 _Castiel's eyes blinked and scanned the television screen. Dark spots blipped in and out. "I am an angel of the Lord," he said._

 _"We both know that's not true, Castiel. If you're really an angel, well…then how am I here?"_

 _The room became noticeably warmer, the walls and floors trembling like in an earthquake. Lucifer sighed dramatically._

 _"Oh, great," Lucifer said. "Here we go again. Castiel, how about we turn the volume up on this one?"_

Cas

 _Dean's voice came through, and Castiel clenched his teeth together tightly._

Cas, man, come on. You don't have to do this.

 _Castiel leaned forward to the television screen, trying with all his ability to ignore Dean and listen to the sound on the television. The people in the television couldn't ever hate him._

We'll find another way. Please, Cas. Please.

 _"Please, Cas," Lucifer mocked, his voice a near perfect imitation of Dean's. "Please come back, so you can warm my bed."_

 _Dean was silent for a moment._

Castiel.

 _"Oh, full name," Lucifer hissed. "You're in trouble," he said in a sing-song voice._

Cas.

 _"He sounds really hurt," Lucifer said. "Aren't you going to do anything about it?"_

 _The image on the television grew more distorted. The images were pulled and twisted out of shape, into something that couldn't be made out._

 _Dean's voice didn't come back. Lucifer's grip in his hair grew even tighter. His touch burned, and it was like Castiel was in Hell again, storming through the levels straight down to the Pit, with demons clawing and pulling at his wings, stealing and burning feathers, scarring him forever._

 _Lucifer's wings drew over Castiel on either side. Like a cage._

 _His wings really were beautiful, Castiel thought. Nothing like his own._

 _"What are you, Castiel?" Lucifer asked._

 _"I'm…"_

 _Lucifer waited, grinning._

 _Castiel blinked._

Dean and Castiel did not talk about their fight, like usual. They fell back into the routine they had established. They woke up early. Dean made breakfast. Castiel didn't eat, but he still sat with Sam and Dean for the company. They talked about possible cases. If there were no cases, they spent their time transcribing the Men of Letters records. Long, grueling hours passed without a word between the three of them, just the scratching sound of pen on paper, of ancient pages turning, the smell of dust and age clouding the air in the room.

Castiel stared at a particular page, rubbing at his temples. He had an ache behind his eyes. The letters pushed together into something illegible. Castiel frowned and squinted, but the ink blurred into nothing more than a black smudge.

Something tore at the back of Castiel's throat; a frustrated whine. He fought to swallow it down. He was not weak. He would not show weakness, especially not in front of the Winchesters. They already thought he was weak, he couldn't give them any more reason to think lower of him than they already did.

But he was weak. And pathetic. Once he knew every language to have ever passed on Earth. Now he was struggling to read basic Latin. He glanced up briefly. Sam's eyes moved steadily, left to right, as he read, fluidly and without pauses. Dean was chewing on his pen in between his breaks of jotting down notes.

Castiel looked back down at the words on the page, and he willed them to make sense. But they wouldn't make sense. He couldn't read them. He had no idea what any of the words meant, and it was pathetic. He could decipher differential equations in his head, knew of every sort of creature that existed and how to kill it, could argue philosophy—but he couldn't read _Latin._

He was _pathetic._

Broken.

"Everything okay, Cas?" Sam's voice rang inside Castiel's head, knocking between the neurons of his brain. He could feel the cells moving through his bloodstreams, could feel them, count their numbers and identify what stage of mitosis they were enduring, and as they died, and they were _screaming-_ -

"Cas!"

Dean and Sam were both at his side now, Sam's gentle but firm hand on his shoulder and Dean's hand pressed against his forehead.

"Jesus Christ," Dean whispered. "He's got a fever. Cas! Earth to Castiel."

"Dean," Castiel choked out, tears threatening to slip out his eyes.

"Hey," Dean said, bringing his other hand to Castiel's other cheek. His face was in Dean's grip, and Castiel hated how much he liked it, how safe it made him feel. He was an angel—he should be the one protecting Sam and Dean—

It had be a long time since he been able to protect them. He'd brought nothing upon them but destruction and agony. He let Lucifer back out into the World, and after everything they had done and sacrificed to imprison him—he had endangered _Sam_ , could still hear Sam's screams as Lucifer stuck his hand into Sam's gut and pulled at Sam's soul—they should hate him. Why didn't they hate him? Why was he even still here?

"—shouldn't be here," Castiel muttered.

"Come on," Dean said. His voice was soft and low, gentle in a way Castiel wasn't used to hearing. Not from Dean.

…

Not from anyone, actually.

"Why don't you lie down for a little bit?" Dean said. Together he and Sam hoisted Castiel to his feet.

They led him down the small set of stairs into the hallway of bedrooms.

Castiel was enraged with himself, that he didn't protest against them.

His 'bedroom' was little more than an empty space where he could lock himself away from the world. It was barren, walls empty and gray, and there was nothing in it except for a bed and an empty nightstand.

"Come on," Dean said, pushing him down onto the mattress. "You'll be okay. It's just a fever. Sleep it off and you'll be right as rain in no time."

Castiel didn't have the energy to ask what Dean meant by any of that. The mattress was soft and he sunk into it; it reminded him of his favorite cloud in Heaven.

Then he remembered he could never see his favorite cloud again, never run his fingers through it, or let it mist in his wings.

His chest shuddered and rattled, like it was full of broken glass.

Dean patted his back gently, and Castiel wished it would have stayed there longer, wished he could have felt Dean's warmth linger there over the permanent ache in his back.

"I'll check on you in a little bit, okay?" Dean said. Castiel didn't answer. He listened as both Sam and Dean's footsteps left the room and closed the door. He listened until their footsteps vanished down the hall.

He pushed himself into a sitting position and pulled his angel blade out of the ether. He pulled the sleeve of his coat up past his elbow.

It was quick and clean, and he didn't even feel it until after it was over and the sting radiated down his arm and the blood swelled and bubbled out of the wound.

He stared at it, running down his arm. Suddenly, the thunderstorm in his mind vanished and all there was only the pain in his arm, the sting, and wet, warm blood, dribbling onto the corners of his coat.

 _"What are you going to do about the Darkness?"_

 _"Relax, Castiel, I'm working on it."_

 _"Work on it faster."_

 _"You can't rush perfection, dear brother. These things take time."_

 _"We don't have time! She can reappear at any moment. You said you could defeat her. Do it."_

 _One hand wrapped around his throat; the other dug into the broken feathers of Castiel's wing. "Remember," Lucifer's voice was low and guttural, his forked tongue pressing out behind his lips. "You let me in. You need me. The Winchester need_ me. _Not you. And when I save the world," Lucifer's eyes alit with joy, juxtaposed by his snake-like pupils and forked tongue, "I'll become their guardian angel." He canted his head and narrowed his eyebrows. "What does that make you?"_

"What the fuck was that?" Dean yelled, pressing Castiel against the wall. The splinters of the wood bit into Castiel's aching back. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

Castiel swallowed, his throat tight. He clenched his fists. "I did my job," he said, using all his might to hide the tremor that threatened to invade his voice. Oh, how low he had had Fallen, that he could not even bring forth a confidence to his voice. "I saw an opening, and I took advantage of it—"

"No," Dean spat. "You took a risk. A fucking stupid one at that!"

"It worked," Castiel said. His grace crackled underneath his skin, burning like ice at his fingertips, and his eyes were growing warm, the ache returning, but Dean was still looking at him like _that._ All anger and impatience, like he hoped to burn Castiel to a crisp with his eyes. Castiel ground his teeth together, and wondered if he could grind them into dust if he pressed hard enough. Dean didn't understand. Castiel was lightning in a paper bag, threatening to burst at the seams at any moment. This skin he wore was paper, and the bones he moved toothpicks. He was one thousand feet tall crammed into this-this-and—

And—

And his wings were broken, his grace a single match in the dark. There had been a time when people cowed at the sight of him, or fell to their knees in great jubilation. "An angel," they cried, "come to answer our prayers!"

Dean didn't look at him like that. Dean looked at him like a nothing more than a strong wind would be enough to knock him over.

And the worst thing was, Dean was right. He was not the great warrior he once used to be. He was not the soldier that had stormed the gates of Hell and rescued a righteous sinner from the manacles of demons.

Castiel wasn't sure when that version of him had died.

Once, divine fury had been his greatest weapon. He had been crafted by God's hand to serve and fight in the Lord's name. He had been proud to be an angel; back when God's word was Law. When he thought he was doing the Lord's will.

But it had been many years since he'd done the Lord's will. Freeing Lucifer surely would not…

He'd just been trying to help.

Castiel stared at his fingertips.

Dean exhaled long and slowly. It was clear he was trying to rein in his temper. "Look," Dean said tensely. Castiel could still feel the bite of barely contained anger, and he was suddenly reminded of Dean's fists breaking cheekbones and teeth, of blood filling his mouth until Castiel felt like he could drown in it. Of Dean above him, but it wasn't Dean staring down at him, blade positioned right above Castiel's heart.

Dean raised his hand and Castiel flinched.

Dean noticed. He swallowed and paused. His hand moved. Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, but his eyes widened and his mouth stayed agape for a pregnant pause. "Look," he said again, softer; his voice was a harsh whisper, but it was warm, and blanketed, and Castiel wanted to let it bury him. "Maybe we should take a break from hunting for a while."

"What?" Castiel said, too quickly for his own pleasure, hating the desperation that tumbled out past his lips. "No. Dean, I can fight."

He was an angel, he was a warrior, he had to fight. He _had_ to fight.

 _"Better dead than useless, ain't that right, Castiel?"_ Lucifer's voice vibrated inside his head, rattling, rattling. He was still there. Lucifer was gone, smoked out with the Darkness, but he was still there, nestled somewhere deep inside Castiel, and he wouldn't leave.

 _When angels take vessels, a smidgen of their grace stays within the vessel_. He told that to Sam once.

Castiel stared at his fingertips and felt the energy pooling beneath them. What if that wasn't his grace he was feeling? What if it was still Lucifer's?

What if his grace was gone, smoked out, and the little bit of power he did have was residual from Lucifer?

"Cas," Dean shook him again. Castiel forced himself to look Dean in the eyes. Dean swallowed. "Of course you can fight," Dean said. Castiel's jaw tightened. He hated when Dean spoke to him like a child. "But," Dean continued. "This isn't about what you can or can't do, okay?"

"Then what is it about, Dean?"

He waited for the answer; waited for Dean to tell him to leave, that he couldn't stay. He was barely an angel; practically useless. The last time Castiel was useless, Dean told him to leave. He was going to do it again, wasn't he? Castiel been waiting for it for a while, actually. Lucifer was right. He couldn't be what the Winchesters needed.

"I think it's time for a vacation," Dean said.

"A vacation," Castiel said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Didn't I tell you? Always wanted to go on a beach vacation. Never had the chance. You know. There's just always been some kind of disaster to attend to. But now the world's not in any danger of being destroyed, I think we deserve a bit of a vacation. You especially. You've had it rough for a long time, Cas. I mean, fuck, have you ever just taken a _break_?"

Castiel blinked. His first memory was being given his sword and taking his vows of an angel.

 _I'm an angel of the Lord. My duty is to obey._

"I'm gonna take that as a no," Dean said. He sighed. "Well then it's settled. We're taking a vacation." Dean smiled and it was like a punch in Castiel's gut. Dean was so happy. It shouldn't hurt, but it did and Castiel didn't know why.

It was Lucifer's grace, he decided. It had to be. He still had Lucifer's grace in him. Lucifer despised Dean. Lucifer would have killed Dean if given the chance. Castiel needed it out.

He would cut again to get it out.

The hotel room Dean rented was nice and homely, but Castiel didn't have his own room like he did at the bunker, so he had to lock himself in the bathroom to cut Lucifer's grace. He cut two long slashes, one on each arm, and watched the blood and blue light swell up to the surface. The grace wasn't as bright as it once would have been, and Castiel wondered if it was all Lucifer's, or some horrid combination of his and the devil's.

The cuts healed slower than they normally would have, but still only took a few minutes until they were nothing more than red lines down his arms, and Castiel cut again, digging the blade deeper into his stolen flesh.

It hurt, but it was still less than he deserved. And it still never failed to silence the more malicious thoughts that intruded on him every ticking second of his continued existence.

He pulled the blade down his skin, when there was a sudden knock on the door. It startled him, and Castiel jerked, pulling the blade diagonally. Blood and grace rushed out quickly, spilling onto the white tile of the bathroom.

"Cas," Sam said. "Can you hurry it up in there? I need to pee."

Castiel gripped onto his arm, the blood warming his palm. He willed whatever grace it was that coursed through his veins to worker faster and heal, so he could clean the white tile. "Just a moment," he said. His tongue felt fat in his throat. He got on his knees and pulled a large section of toilet paper from the roll, and tried to wipe up the blood. It cleaned up some of it, but it also streaked across and Castiel wet it in the sink to clean up the rest. He pulled his sleeves down over his arms and tugged at the wrists, before flushing away the bloody toilet tissue and opening the door.

Sam's face was concerned. He looked over Castiel's shoulder at the toilet.

"Are you…Cas, are you using the bathroom now?"

Castiel's face paled. He didn't know what to say. He didn't want to lie to Sam. But he also couldn't tell Sam the truth.

"I want to lie down now," he said instead, pushing past Sam with his head down. His stomach shuddered in shame and he curled onto the bed in the room he shared with the brothers. Dean was sitting on his bed, watching the television, but he looked to Castiel when Castiel laid down. Castiel turned on his side and faced away.

"Hey," Dean said, standing up and walking over to Castiel. "You still not feeling good?"

Castiel's chest was heaving. "I want to sleep," he said. Dean's hand pressed against the back of Castiel's neck. He heard Dean hmm in confusion.

"You still got a bit of a fever. Is it an angel thing? Do angels just run hotter?"

Castiel responded by burying his face further into the corner of the pillow.

Dean turned back over his shoulder to look back towards the shoreline. Past the swarms of people and laughing families, he could barely make out a lone, dark blur on the sand, hunched over, drawing patterns in the sand.

The ocean water was cold, and once he was far out enough, Dean let the waves push and pull him around. His skin was sticky with the salt water, and the hot, humid air only worsened it.

Sam waded up next to him, his hair soaked and sticking to his face. Sam followed Dean's gaze, and he sighed.

"Dean," he said. "I'm worried about Cas."

Dean swallowed. "Yeah," he said. "Me too."

Cas had refused to join the brothers out into the water, and Dean would've pressed and pestered until Cas relented, except for the blatant fear in Cas's eyes at the suggestion.

Cas wasn't well, Dean knew. But he also knew that if Cas didn't want to talk about it, he wasn't going to talk about it, and nothing Dean did or said would make any difference. Cas was twitchy and pissy; he'd get so lost in thoughts, sometimes, Dean was afraid Cas wouldn't ever find his way out. It reminded Dean too much of when Cas was insane, that vacant, puppet like expression. Except this was worse. Crazy Cas would at least _talk_ to him, even if it was about stupid shit, like monkeys, and cosmetics, and yet another Fun Fact About Cats.

Now, Cas wouldn't say a damn word. And even when he came out of these episodes, he was tight-lipped, barely spoke.

"What are we going to do?" Sam asked.

Dean turned from the shoreline. He shrugged. "I don't know. Look, he probably just needs more time, okay? Dude was Lucifer's prom dress for the better part of a year, okay? And then he was literally caught in the middle of the battle between the devil and the Darkness. And—and he'd been having a really shitty time even before the whole Lucifer shit, with Rowena's spell. He's still getting over it all."

"He was in the bathroom for a long time last night. What would he even be doing in there?"

"I don't know! You're so concerned, you ask him."

"And he's been sleeping—"

"He's _depressed._ Depressed people do that, you know."

Sam paused. The waves lapped at their bellies, the current continuing its push and pull. "Is that why we're on this stupid vacation? To cheer him up?"

Dean bit his lip. "That was the plan. 'Course it's working as well as all my other plans, in case you haven't noticed."

Dean looked back to the beach. Cas hadn't moved from his spot, still tracing in the sand.

"He won't talk to me," Dean said, hating how his whole chest tightened at the admission. There was a crater between him and Cas, one deep and long. Cas had changed so much in the time Dean had known him; and a large part of Dean hated himself for what he'd done to Cas. He hooked his claws into an angel's wings and drug the angel down with him, into the mud and shit of humanity; and for the most part, he'd left Cas to rot and traverse the confusion by himself. Even before Cas had been human for that brief stint and Dean had to kick him out of the bunker, Cas had been in a transition, and Dean didn't help him.

Dean wondered how it would feel, to be left deaf and blind, and dropped in a foreign environment with no help at all, stumbling through social faux pas one after the other, with no clue of what you did wrong.

"Well," Sam said slowly. "He'll talk when he's ready. Right? We'll let him come to us."

Dean snorted. "You'll be waiting a long time if that's your plan."

"Yeah," Sam said. "We haven't been the best role models for mental health."

 _I'm afraid I might kill myself_ , Cas's voice echoed in his head, that look searing itself into Dean's memories. Sometimes Dean thought he saw that look on Cas now; and he does what he did then. He runs, and tries to pretend he didn't notice. Pretend that Cas will figure it out on his own, just like Cas always does. Dean was the pathetic one, looking for easy solutions, fighting against making sacrifices.

Cas, though.

Cas always did what needed to be done, no matter the consequences. Like consenting to Lucifer, because only Lucifer could defeat the Darkness. Every time he tripped and fell down, Cas pulled himself up by his bootstraps and fought.

Cas saved the _world_ all by himself. Again. (Because Dean knew now that Cas opening Purgatory was the smart thing to do—the only thing Cas could have done to save the world from Raphael; he wished so much he could go back in time and agree to help Cas. Cas shouldn't have had to go through all that alone.)

Cas saved the world. Why couldn't he just be happy?

Castiel traced his finger over and over through the sand, making nonsensical symbols. He could hear the cawing of seagulls. Every now and again, a small crab would peek up through the sand and shift across, its pincers pinching the air. Castiel heard the sounds of the ocean; the pushing and pulling of the water, the roll of the waves.

Castiel swallowed.

Dean had wanted him to go into the water, but Castiel couldn't. He thought of wading into that cold water, of the waves hitting him from every direction, and a current that would push and pull on him; and he thought of the Leviathans dragging him into a muddy lake, shoving his head underneath the surface, and forcing rancid lake water down his throat and nose.

Besides, if Castiel were to go swimming with the Winchesters, he would have to take off his clothes, and then the brothers would see the scars he couldn't let heal. They would worry. Castiel didn't want them to worry about him.

For now, he was content to stay in his spot on the sand, looking up every so often to see the brothers playing in the water, large smiles splaying across their faces as they splashed water in each other's faces. Dean looked so happy. And he wanted to go on this vacation so badly. Castiel didn't want to ruin it; the vacation and Dean's happiness. Dean deserved some happiness.

 _"You could have spared yourself from all of this," Lucifer sang. He traced a finger down the curve of Castiel's jaw, fingers scratching into the rotting skin. "You could have joined me, way back when."_

 _Castiel's breath hitched._

 _"If you're going to kill me," he forced out, braver than he felt, "do it and be done."_

 _Lucifer chuckled. "Oh, dear, sweet, baby brother…still so peculiar. Heh. I've got big plans for you, baby brother. Big plans."_

They leave the beach three days later. The drive back to Kansas is long, and dull; Castiel believed he'd never get used to the monotony of human transportation. After a while, everything blurred together. The same sky, same tree tops, same fast food restaurants appearing over and over. Castiel curled onto his side in the backseat. His feet brushed against one door, his head pushed against another. Dean's music was on a lower volume than normal, but the car still vibrated in rhythm.

After a while, Castiel pulled his coat over his body and head like a blanket.

He wanted to sleep. He didn't need to sleep, but he wanted to. Unfortunately, the movement of the car was too fast and jerky for him. He felt nauseous, a condition he had intimately become familiar with during his time as a human, after eating nothing but day old hot dogs from the Gas N Sip for months.

He clenched his eyes shut and stayed as still as he could.

Some time passed. He heard the timbre of Sam and Dean's voices added to the cacophony of the music, and roar of the engine.

"He sleeping back there?" Dean's voice was heavy and carried all the way to the backseat. Castiel debated revealing that he wasn't asleep; but the effort seemed too much, suddenly. Just the thought of needing to pull his coat off his head, and having to sit upright was too much.

"I think so," Sam said. Sam sighed. "So, what's the plan now?"

"We go home," Dean said. "Just, take some time off."

"More time off?"

"We've earned it, man! And y'know—it's not. The world is doing okay right now. The sun is still shining. The Earth's not gonna be spinning off its axis any time soon. The world's doing okay. So, let's focus on taking care of the important stuff. I got a plan working."

Sam snorted. "Yeah? What's the plan?"

"Good food. Hot showers. Fuzzy blankets. Lots of Netflix."

"Yeah, the best things in life." Castiel thought Sam was being sarcastic, but he was never sure about those types of things.

"Dude, they are totally the best things in life. And, Cas is like, a billion years old and he's never got to actually enjoy life. That's gotta change."

Tears burned at Castiel's eyes. He picked at the scab on his arm.

 _Dean and Sam were behind them, petrified in fear; but Castiel could hear Dean's prayers. They were loud and erratic, deafening and worried—mostly just a series of "Cas, Cas, don't this, you don't have to do this,_ _ **please**_ _."_

 _Castiel was a prisoner in his own body._

 _The Darkness stood in front of them, her hand outstretched, smiling brightly._

 _"Morning Star," she said. Her voice was resounding, and ancient; evident of her power and age. "It's been sometime."_

 _"Aunt Amara," Lucifer said, grinning wide. "Let's cut the chitchat, why don't we? I think I owe you an ass kicking. Didn't think you'd want to come back after the last one, but some people need to go to class a few times before the lesson sticks."_

 _Lucifer stretched his hand out. His grace burned at Castiel's grace, and the vessel, until a beam of archangelic power shot out and hit Amara right in the gut. She screamed and doubled over, blood and smoke pooling from the hole in her gut._

 _She laughed and stood up, straight as a pole. Her eyes were smoke. She outstretched both arms to her side and spun, faster and faster, laughing louder and louder, until she was nothing more than a great black cloud, and she charged._

 _"_ _ **Cas!"**_ _Dean's voice was like a hammer on glass._

 _The Darkness was upon him. Castiel was caught in a tornado. The winds were screeching by his ears, Dean and Sam were screaming prayers in his mind, and Lucifer was laughing, laughing. The Darkness burned at his skin; Castiel's grace buckled and spasmed; twisting, twisting, twisting into something foreign and hideous. Lucifer was still laughing, his grace radiating. It was light versus the dark, a battle for dominance._

 _Lucifer stretched his wings far and wide, pulled his grace to the forefront and attacked._

 _Castiel was on fire. He screamed._

"Would you stop that?" Sam snapped.

"Stopped what?"

"Your foot."

Dean only realized then that he'd been tapping his foot incessantly, but now that he was cognizant of it, stopping seemed hard. He felt like he had bugs underneath his skin, and he had to be moving to keep them from squirming.

Dean's eyes began to hurt. He slammed his book shut. Damn it, they were supposed to be vacationing! That meant, absolutely, without a doubt, no research.

He needed a drink. He shoved his chair back from the table, the legs screeching against the floor.

"You want something?" he asked Sam.

"Dean, it's two pm."

"So that's a no?" Dean said. Sam sighed, but said nothing else. Dean went into the kitchen and pulled out a bottle of beer. He snapped the cap off and took a long swallow before returning to the war room.

He stared at the doorway that led back to the bedrooms. His mouth was dry suddenly, despite the cold beer he had in his hand.

"So," Dean said slowly. "You, uh. You seen Cas today?"

"Nope," Sam said, his pens scratching against the paper.

Dean sat down in his chair. It was uncomfortable. He tapped his fingers against the bottle.

"Is it good to let him sleep all day?" Dean had been researching depression and PTSD, but everything he came across suggested the person getting professional help, which wasn't an option. It was a reoccurring nightmare of Dean's that one day Cas would slip up, say the wrong thing to the wrong person, and suddenly he'd be taken away, thrown into a padded cell and Dean would never see him again. And there wasn't any way for Cas to explain why he felt the way he did, the traumas he'd endure, without sounding insane.

So. No. Professional help wasn't an option. Cas was stuck with Sam and Dean, for better or worse.

And Dean was stuck, because he didn't want to push Cas, but he also knew that Cas wouldn't ever come forward to Dean to talk about _feelings_.

But things couldn't go on like this anymore. They were supposed to be better. No more lies, no more sneaking around behind each other's backs—they were supposed to be honest, and talk through things before someone dove underneath a flaming bus again.

"You can wake him if you're worried," Sam said. "But he's probably just gonna smite you or something."

Dean wasn't even sure if Cas had the power to smite a housefly, let alone a full grown human being. Cas hadn't been full-powered for a while now, but Lucifer especially seemed to have drained Cas in a way nothing else had. Dean kept that thought to himself, though.

And the problem is, Dean and Sam both have their own shit they carry around with them. It's heavy, and dirty, and follows them everywhere and it sticks to other people. They are the least qualified people to be playing therapist to anyone. They've both been to Hell and back—and even before that, they'd been through the wringer.

But Cas has been through it too, and been going through it for as long as the Universe has existed. Thousands and thousands of years of battling and trauma had been thrown onto Cas. Even when things were at their very worst, Dean always had Sam. Cas hasn't had anyone for almost his entire life. Because Dean saw it, even if Cas didn't. Even before he chose to stand with Dean, back when he was Zachariah's employee of the month, Cas wasn't anything more than a tool to the angels, and Zachariah would've killed Cas without a second thought, without one modicum of grief, if Zachariah thought the situation called for it.

And Dean and Sam hadn't treated Cas much better, Dean thought bitterly.

But that was going to change. It really was. Before, there was always something bigger and badder around the corner, and they never had time to just stop and take a breath. Except for now.

"I'm gonna see what's on Netflix," Dean said, standing up. Because that was the Plan. Bad indie movies and popcorn so buttery it left grease on your fingers, and then he'd show Cas the joys of a hot, steaming shower after a long day.

But scrolling through Netflix proved a challenge Dean hadn't expected to face—what kind of movie could you show someone who'd been beaten and abused and suffered that wouldn't be a horrid reminder of their pain? Dean had ruled out horror movies from the very beginning, because their life was a horror movie. And Cas wouldn't know a joke if it punched him in the face, so comedies were out of the question.

In the end, Dean settled for a kid's movie, because how bad could a kid's movie be? And he used to sneak him and Sam into them on the Friday matinee nights when Dad was out on a hunt. He picked something called _Lilo and Stitch_ because it was about aliens which Dean knew for a fact did not exist.

Cas was laid curled on his side in bed and Dean shook his shoulder gently. Cas came without a fight, but Dean could tell he wasn't happy about it. Dean chewed on his lip, but left Cas and Sam in the living room to make the popcorn. Sam and Dean sit on the couch, while Cas sat in the recliner on the far end, knees pulled up beside him.

Dean thought the movie was okay, until the very end, when the empress alien bitch tried to take the little blue alien away.

 _"This is my family_ ," it said in its strange way of speaking. _"I found it all on my own. It's little. And broken. But good. Still good."_

And Dean was left wondering what the hell kind of kid's movie this was when he tried to casually glance to Cas. Cas was tense, but other than that, he didn't look any different than normal. But Dean knew he had to take that with a grain of salt. Cas just…shut down when he was overwhelmed with the emotions he wasn't even supposed to have.

This had been a really bad idea, Dean realized. He tried not to notice. He didn't want to make Cas uncomfortable with his concerned staring.

The credits scrolled by and no one moved.

Castiel stared in the bathroom mirror, leaning so far forward, his nose was almost pressed against the glass. He picked and pulled at the skin on his face. This was his body. That was his nose. His plaque covered teeth. The dark under eye circles, and aging lines were his too; every millimeter, every cell. Once this had been nothing more than a costume; a tool just like his angel blade.

But now this was him.

A thousand feet of energy compressed tighter and tighter to fit into this form of meat. This was his face and his body; this was the only form the Winchesters could see and hold, comprehend and love.

It was him now. But it wasn't. This was a human body and he wasn't…He still wasn't human.

He wasn't an angel, but he still wasn't quite a man.

 _"What are you?"_ Lucifer's voice crawled from the corners of Castiel's mind. Castiel thought he could feel Lucifer's arms wrapped around Castiel's shoulders. Lucifer's rancid breath against the shell of Castiel's ear.

 _"Fiddle of gold against your…do you even have a soul, Castiel?"_ Lucifer laughed.

Castiel swallowed and pushed away from the mirror. He shook his head, put his elbows on the vanity and rested his head in his hands. He dug his fingernails into his scalp. It pinched at first, and so Castiel dug deeper, until the pinch turned to a burn. Wetness licked at his fingernails.

Angels don't have souls. People had souls.

But he wasn't an angel. And he wasn't a man.

 _"What are you?"_

Lucifer's grace hummed underneath Castiel's fingertips. If he didn't have a soul, and he cut Lucifer's grace out, he'd be nothing. Empty.

He thought of the movie he watched with the brothers. He understood it perfectly. The little alien didn't belong with the other aliens—and no matter how hard he tried, he'd never fit in with his human family either.

Castiel gasped, his breath rattling in his ribcage. His whole body vibrated—and he was caught in the tornado again, spinning and spinning and _burning_ —Lucifer was Light and the Light was meant to fight against the Darkness, the opposites finally clashing together.

Lucifer did what Castiel couldn't do. He saved the world. Lucifer died. He died saving the world.

Castiel stared at his fingertips. If he focused hard enough, he could feel the heat of grace underneath his skin.

Lucifer was dead, but he was still here, buried deep underneath Castiel, hidden in Castiel's bones.

Maybe Lucifer was the reason for the thunderstorm in Castiel's mind. When they shared a vessel, and Castiel kept to the domain he had made for himself, Lucifer could, and would often, manipulate it. He would make it darker, fill it with the screeches from Hell.

 _"Wish I could tie you up on the Rack,"_ Lucifer crooned. _"Bet you scream really pretty, don'tcha baby brother?"_

Castiel stared at his hands.

He had to get Lucifer out.

He turned and saw the shower. Dutifully, he stripped, pulling off his coat and kicking off his shoes. He undid his belt and shucked off his pants and underwear in one motion, and then worked at his tie. It was a noose around his neck, pulling tighter and tighter, constricting all air flow.

Castiel swallowed.

Finally, he took off his suit jacket and dress shirt. He was naked. The cold air nipped at his skin and made goosebumps.

Castiel pulled his angel blade out of the ether. He walked into the shower and turned the water on as hot as it would go. Dean always talked about how wonderful hot showers were—one of the best things in life, he said. Castiel remembered taking his first real and hot shower after the Winchesters rescued him from the Reaper; he'd been human and homeless for weeks by then. He'd been dirty and cold. The water had been baptismal. He felt like a new person when he stepped out and changed into his clothes Dean had laundered.

Then Dean told him he couldn't stay and Castiel hadn't been able to take a hot shower back on the streets.

But he could now. Maybe he could make himself reborn again. Reborn without Lucifer vibrating in his marrow.

It was like knives on his skin. It was like when Lucifer had first entered the vessel—his force so much larger and more powerful and more beautiful than Castiel could ever hope to be. It was like placing a single grain of sand next to the Hope diamond. Lucifer _was_ and Castiel was _what used to be._

Castiel's skin blistered and turned red.

 _"What a peculiar thing you are," Lucifer says._

 _"Nobody cares that you're broken!" Dean yells._

 _"Heaven won't take you back, Castiel," Naomi seethes. She slams her hands down on top of the table. "Heaven will_ _ **never**_ _take you back!"_

 _"Like, who are you now?" Metatron says. "You're obviously not an angel of the Lord."_

 _"You're like a dog that thinks it's people," Rowena giggles._

 _"You are broken, Castiel," Metatron says sadly._

 _"What are you?" Lucifer asks._

Broken.

Broken.

Castiel stared at his angel blade. Steam curled from the bathroom floors, turning like a thick fog. Castiel could barely see his own hands, but he figured it's better that way.

He put the blade to his chest, right over his heart where Lucifer's grace swam through the veins, and pulled.

"That movie was a bad idea," Dean said, burying his face in his hands.

"Uh, why?" Sam asked.

Dean slammed his hands down on the table top. "Were you not there? Did you not see what happened?"

Sam shrugged. "We watched a children's movie?"

"I just wanted to have a nice distraction," Dean moaned. "I thought it was just a kid's movie! I didn't know—"

"Dean," Sam said slowly. "What happened at the end of the movie?"

Dean swallowed. "The alien got to stay with the sisters."

Sam nodded. "That was what the alien wanted, wasn't it?"

"But—he had to say goodbye to space and—"

"But was he really happy in space?"

Dean's words died in his throat. After a moment, he found new words. "I hate when you're right."

Sam scoffed. "So you hate me all the time, then?"

Dean flipped Sam off.

"C'mon, Dean," Sam said with a little head tilt and a shrug. "Don't underestimate him. He's smart. If he can see the symbolism in the freakin' _Road Runner_ cartoons, he'll understand a kid's movie. He's not doing so good now, yeah, but he's got us to get him through it."

Dean smiled slightly. He wasn't sure about that last part—he and Sam, they weren't good at the heart-to-hearts and the full on honesty and emotional support. Dad's motto had been "suck it up" and it was a motto Dean and Sam still stuck too mostly when things got hard emotionally. It was something Cas learned from them, and Dean couldn't comprehend how confusing that must have been. Cas more or less learned how to understand emotions from Dean and Sam, and then he had to learn the Winchester Way of Dealing With Emotions: You Don't. Suck it Up.

It was like someone teaching you two plus two is four, and then that same person trying to tell you that two plus two is five. They didn't work together; it had to be one or the other. But it was what Dean and Sam knew. The way they had grown up, what they had always known.

But it was time things changed, Dean thought. Cas had changed so much for them. It was time they changed a little for him.

It was then that Dean smelled something potent in the air. His whole face scrunched up and then Sam's did too. It was wet and warm.

"You burning something?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head.

Two long seconds ticked by.

Dean and Sam shot up from their chairs, each yelling out a panicked cry of "Cas!" and raced out of the War Room, following their noses. Down the small set of stairs, Dean was able to see thick steam billowing down the hallway. It was reminiscent of heavy smoke that still permeated Dean's nightmares occasionally, years later

The steam was leaking out the cracks of a the bathroom door, thick as clouds.

Dean didn't bother knocking. His hand went right around the door knob and it stuck. It was locked and wouldn't budge.

"Damn it!" Dean said. He pounded on the door and jiggled the knob. "Castiel? Open up!" He pounded, pounded, pounded. Nothing happened. Steam still poured out, and Dean's clothes began to grow wet.

He looked to Sam. Sam's face paled. Dean could see the panic in his baby brother's face.

Sam put his hand on Dean's shoulder and pulled Dean back. Dean barely had time to react before Sam was hurtling towards the door, putting all his weight in his shoulder and slamming into the door.

Dean would forever be thankful that Sam broke it down on the first try.

"Cas?" Dean said, barely able to see past the steam.

He almost fell to his knees when he made it to the showers.

Cas sat cross legged on the tile, his angel blade in his hand, dark red. Cas's skin was a deep, dark red, and Dean couldn't tell what was burns and what was blood.

Sam shut the water off, and Dean raced into the shower stall, collapsing and putting his hands on Cas's shoulders. Blood coated Dean's palms.

Dean was speechless as he looked Cas over, every inch. There were so many deep, long cuts all over him that were still bleeding sluggishly, dribbling into the concrete. Cas's skin was so red…

Dean put his hand on Cas's cheek, could feel the warmth of the water and the blood on his palm.

"Cas?" Dean said, breathlessly throat tight. He didn't understand. He knew things were bad—but he never would have imagined they were _this_ bad. Sam towered above them, breathing heavily like a scared animal. "Cas, what the hell did you do?" Because now he could see it, faint white scars beginning to peek out past the reddened skin.

Cas's head slowly turned to face Dean.

Dean's heart plummeted into his stomach. He could tell from just that look that the road to getting better was so much longer and crooked than he had foolishly anticipated.

"I'm sorry, Dean," Cas said, his throat raw, and near crying. "I'm sorry I'm broken."


End file.
